Page 32 of Broken Star

But I need to stay in control. Keep him on his toes, craving my presence.

So, even though my heart’s pounding so hard that it’s pushing against my throat, I press a hand to his chest, coaxing him to slow down.

His breath hitches, and for a second, I think he’s going to ignore me.

But then, he lifts his head.

“Do you need more juice?” The corner of his mouth twitches up, mocking but indulgent. “Another cookie?”

“No,” I manage, swallowing hard, forcing myself to focus on his eyes and not his lips. “There’s actually something on my mind. Something I wanted to ask you about.”

He stills, and curiosity flickers across his perfect features, sharp and calculating.

“What is it?” he finally asks.

“Kallista,” I say, and he frowns, tension ripples along his muscles.

“What about her?” His voice is quieter now, laced with caution.

“She was important to you.” I steady my breathing, praying he’s not going to snap at me like he did when I touched the base of his wings. “And I keep thinking about her. Wondering if I’ll ever live up to…” I gesture vaguely at us. “Your expectations, I guess.”

His expression sharpens, like I’ve cracked open something he’s spent a long time keeping locked away. But then, instead of pinning me beneath him again, he shifts and rolls onto his side, shoulder to shoulder with me, still close enough that his body makes it impossible to think.

Electricity crackles between us. But I sense him reining it in, using his magic to pull that current of desire under tighter control.

“You remind me of her,” he finally says, and I roll onto my side, facing him, giving him a full view of the person who reminds him of the woman who apparently still haunts him to this day. “Physically, I mean. Your hair, your eyes, and your expressions. I saw you by that waterfall and it felt like seeing a ghost.” He drags a hand through his dark hair, regret crossing his eyes as he ruffles it in obvious frustration.

“Is she still here? Alive?” I ask, bracing myself for him to shut down this conversation at any moment.

Instead, he exhales, shifting his weight so he’s leaning on one elbow, facing me fully now, as if deciding how much of himself he’s willing to give away.

“I wouldn’t know, although, I hope so,” he says, and I watch him carefully, my heart beating faster. “You know that all night fae started out as winter fae, right?”

I nod, since that much has become clear to me since I arrived.

“Well, before I was turned into a night fae, I wasn’t anyone important,” he continues, and I can’t help it—I smile.

“What?” he asks, his eyes narrowing slightly—not in irritation, but in curiosity.

“It’s just that I can’t imagine a universe where you aren’t ‘anyone important,’” I say, since even without his wings, I know he must have turned heads. Many, many heads.

At first, his expression doesn’t change.

Then, slowly, he smirks, the faintest tilt of his lips that sends a low, knowing heat curling through my stomach.

“Then don’t imagine it,” he says, moving closer, apparently taking my confession as a way to end this conversation.

But I shift back, just enough for him to notice. To make him chase.

“Why imagine it when you can tell it?” I challenge, and his eyes flicker, dark amusement dancing in their depths.

“You seem very confident in my storytelling abilities,” he says slowly, as if he’s teasing me—or taunting me. Probably both.

“As confident as you were in my painting abilities?” I ask, since he made his opinion of my artwork quite clear when he added pure, dark red blood to the fountains I was re-creating.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, as if hearing something I can’t. A whisper from the past—something clawing at the edges of his mind.

The playfulness between us flickers, then dims.

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